CHAPTER 1
“You cannot be serious.”
Lady Eleanor Whitcombe set down her teacup with the sort of precision that spoke of decades navigating drawing rooms where a single misplaced word could spell absolute ruin. Her grey eyes, sharp as flint despite her two-and-fifty years, fixed upon Maribel with undisguised concern.
“You intend to present yourself at Blackwood, uninvited, to enquire after a child the Duke has made abundantly clear he wishes to raise without interference?”
Maribel’s fingers tightened around her own cup, the porcelain cool against her palm. Beyond the window of Lady Eleanor’s modest Mayfair sitting room, the October sky hung low and sullen, threatening rain that had not yet decided to fall.
“He is four years old,” Maribel said quietly. “He has lost both his parents within a fortnight. And the man now responsible for hiscare believes that children require nothing more than discipline and distance.”
“The Duke of Blackwood is one of the most powerful men in England.”
“Which makes him no less wrong.”
Lady Eleanor exhaled slowly, the sound carrying the weight of a woman who had witnessed too many young women destroy themselves through pride and principle. She had been Maribel’s grandmother’s dearest friend, and when the Ashcroft scandal had torn through society like wildfire—when doors had closed and invitations had ceased and whispers had followed Maribel through every ballroom she dared enter—Eleanor had been the only one to extend her hand.
You shall be my companion, she had declared, in a tone that brooked no argument.Society may have forgotten your family’s worth, but I have not.
It was charity dressed in the garments of employment, and they both knew it. But it was also survival, and Maribel had learned that pride made poor company when one’s choices had narrowed to a single, precarious path.
“My dear girl.” Eleanor’s voice softened, though her gaze remained steady. “I understand your attachment to the child. But you must consider what you risk. The Duke despises you?—”
“The feeling is entirely mutual.”
“—and your position is not so secure that you can afford to make enemies of men who could destroy what little remains of your reputation with a single word.” Eleanor leaned forward, her weathered hands folded in her lap. “You have already lost so much. Your father’s debts, your mother’s health, and with Lady Margaret…” She stopped, her mouth pressing into a thin line as she caught herself. “Forgive me. I did not mean to cause you pain.”
Maribel looked away, her throat tight. Margaret. Even now, three months since the fever had claimed her, the name struck like a blade between the ribs.
.
And now she was dead. Nicholas too. And Oliver—bright, sensitive, achingly vulnerable Oliver—had been handed to a man who viewed affection as weakness and love as liability.
Maribel could not save her sister. But she could save her sister’s son.
“I must go to him, Eleanor.” She met the older woman’s gaze, her voice steady despite the turmoil beneath. “If you wish to dismiss me for it, I shall understand. But I cannot sit in this room, sipping tea and discussing the weather, whilst that child suffers in a household that I know in my heart does not know how to care for him.”
Eleanor studied her for a long moment. The calculation in her eyes gave way to resignation, and she shook her head with a slow exhale.
“You are the most stubborn creature I have ever encountered,” she said at last. “Your grandmother would be proud.”
Maribel’s lips curved despite herself. “I choose to take that as a compliment.”
“It was not intended as one.” But there was warmth beneath Eleanor’s tartness, and when she rose, it was to cross the room and take Maribel’s hands in her own. “Go, then. See the child. But you must be careful—one more scandal, and even I cannot shield you. The Duke is not a man who forgives easily, and you have already given him reason to view you with contempt.”
Maribel thought of the wedding. Of Thaddeus Blackwood’s cold eyes and colder words, the way he had spoken of reputation and marriage, of loyalty and order. The man was incapable of feeling, thought of love as a weakness. She was certain that was how he would attempt to raise poor Oliver.
The boy who had clung to her dress when the correspondence came that he was to live at Blackwood Manor from now on.
“I am not afraid of the Duke of Blackwood,” she said.
Eleanor squeezed her hands, her expression knowing. “That, my dear, is precisely what concerns me.”
The journey to Blackwood took the better part of four hours.
Maribel watched the landscape shift beyond the carriage window—London’s grey sprawl giving way to rolling countryside. The sky remained overcast, clouds hanging low as though uncertain whether to weep, and the light that filtered through the glass was thin and pallid.
She had dressed with care that morning, choosing a travelling gown of deep burgundy that she knew flattered her colouring without appearing ostentatious. Her dark chestnut hair was pinned simply, practically—she had long since abandoned the elaborate styles favoured by women who had maids enough to maintain them—and she wore no jewellery save the small garnet pendant that had been her grandmother’s.
